


TKO

by paperclipbitch



Series: femslash100 drabbles [20]
Category: Bad Blood - Taylor Swift (Music Video)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Community: femslash100, F/F, drabbletag6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 09:35:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4258398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperclipbitch/pseuds/paperclipbitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another broken bone for the Trinity to set and sigh over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	TKO

**Author's Note:**

> Written for **femslash100** 's drabbletag, for the prompt: _heart on your sleeve_.
> 
> (I'm not drunk, but I'm not _not_ drunk, so I'm pretty sure this is okay but, you know, quite a lot of cider's been involved.)

Knockout’s always been one to bring a fist to a knife fight, bloody-knuckled and bloody-toothed, and that’s why Catastrophe always wanted her on her side, long before _sides_ even came into it.

Now they’re at war, blades in backs and the world on the edge of the line, Catastrophe’s even gladder to have Knockout: she pushes her harder than anyone else, doesn’t draw back, even when her knuckles form prints in Catastrophe’s cheeks and her mouth is sticky with her own blood, another broken bone for the Trinity to set and sigh over.

Knockout fucks like she fights, too, all nails and knees and torn clothes, working to a rhythm that’s all her own and brutal with it, eyeliner bruised down her cheeks and lips peeled back from her teeth. She’s hypnotic, braids slick with her sweat, and Catastrophe feels taken down, against the ropes, a dozen half-earned aches that ricochet through her every time Knockout touches her.

No one says stupid shit like _what if we lose_ or _what if this isn’t enough_ , because they’re the bitches with the rocket launchers and Arsyn learned her tricks at their knees, but still, there’s something fatalistic in every punch, every scrape of a heel against a floor. Knockout says nothing about it, but walks into battle with one of Castrophe’s black hair ribbons around her arm, a knight with her lady’s favour, a little whisper of a feeling saying _you’d better fucking come back to me when all this is done._


End file.
